The Song of the Northern Front
by Lord Balgruuf
Summary: Torbin was only 17 years old when he defeated Alduin. Now, ten years later, an old enemy threatens the temporary peace in Skyrim, forcing Torbin out of retirement. He has been tasked with leading the Nord army against the empowered Thalmor invaders. Will he take up his sword once again in defense of all mankind? Or will the demons of his past overwhelm him on the battlefield?


**The Call of Destiny**

Chapter 1: Homestead

 _ **Hey Everyone! So yeah, this is my "Second Great War" fanfic that I've been dreaming about writing for weeks now. I had a lot of fun writing Torbin and his backstory, so if y'all have questions, let me know!**_

 _ **Other than that, enjoy! And above all, PLEASE LEAVE REVIEWS! Let me know what y'all think.**_

Torbin Jorgenson woke to a cold sweat. Nightmares plagued him occasionally, and tonight was one of those nights. He dreamt of dragons and battles, of death and destruction. Ten years had passed since he last saw a dragon, yet they still haunted his conscious.

He tried to fall back to sleep many times. Next to him, his lovely wife was in a deep sleep, snoring softly. He smiled at the beautiful creature that he had met in Whiterun so long ago. Torben laid in bed for quite some time after he awoke. He wanted desperately to sleep, yet it eluded him on this frigid night.

Laying in the upstairs bedroom of his house near Falkreath, his mind raced rapidly. He had many chores he planned to do at first light. The manor was in need of repair, and required the Nord to go to town and purchase supplies. He had promised his eldest of ten years, Kodlak, that he would take the boy with him. Before he left, however, he would need to take care of any needs his wife, Ysolda, had. The beautiful Nord was with child, their third, and while the babe wasn't expected for another five months, there were certain matters that Torben insisted he assist with to alleviate any awkwardness between Ysolda and their Housecarl, Rayya.

After laying in bed, boredom overcame Torben, and he gently threw off his fur covers while getting out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. He pulled over his grey woven shirt that had been tossed on the floor the night before and made for the door. Silence was difficult to maintain as he left the room and headed downstairs; his bones and joints seemed to pop or crack more often than the wood creaked, testaments to his many injuries and healings. Making his way down the stairs, he took in the sight of Rayya at the kitchen table. The Redguard seemed lost in a book, but no doubt had heard Torben as he entered the dining room.

"Good morning, my Thane," she whispered as she set the book down and gave him a small nod of curtsy. It was proper for a Housecarl to rise and bow whenever the Thane entered a room. However, Rayya had never seemed to bother with Nordic tradition, and Torben never bothered to correct her. Such was his way.

"Good morning to you, Rayya," the Dragonborn whispered in reply as he took the seat at the long table across from her. "Breakfast today?"

Rayya had picked her book back up and was now sipping out of a tankard. "Sausage and eggs. Should be ready by the time the misses wakes. Oh, and I believe we have some fresh juniper juice for Kodlak and Ania."

Torben nodded with pleasure as sat back in the wooden chair. The wood creaked with every movement the muscular Nord made as he reached towards the table. His target was a sweatroll that Ysolda had baked last night. Rayya made a 'tisk' sound with her tongue as she shook her head. "My lord, remember what the misses said about your diet?"

Torben grinned at the corner of his mouth, and silently cursed his protective wife. "What my dear wife doesn't know, won't hurt her, aye?" He broke off a small sliver of the delicious treat, and ate his early breakfast. "Besides, if Ysolda didn't want me to eat her sweet rolls, she wouldn't leave them out in the open." He took in the deliciousness of the desert, and licked his fingers.

"She's tempting you, my Thane." Rayya still didn't look up from her book.

"I get a little tired of her cabbage and carrot stew for dinner every damn night. I wish she would let you cook dinner again." He sat back in his chair and sighed. "Some venison or beef would do me wonders."

Rayya laughed, nearly spitting up the liquid from her tankard that she had been trying to down. "Maybe when you go to Falkreath today you can get some beef from ole Valga."

"Aye, perhaps," Torben replied in his thick Nordic accent. He took a sip of a tankard of water in front of him and sighed. "Kodlak and I won't be gone for long. I expect us back 'round midday. Make sure Ysolda eats and…"

"I know, my Thane," the Housecarl interrupted him, a rare and dangerous thing to do in front of most Thane's. "I'll make sure Ysolda eats and doesn't do too much work. Ania can help me with simple chores around the house, by your permission."

Torben grinned. That's why he liked having Rayya around; she was straight forward. Too many of his Housecarls and servants treated him like a god. Rayya simply treated him as her Thane. And in return, he granted her more in terms of respect and independence. "Aye, as long as Ysolda doesn't need Ania for anything, have her peel potatoes or something. Not too much for the little lass."

Rayya nodded and stretched her neck. "You know they'll be safe."

"Aye, Rayya, I trust you. We won't be gone for more than a few hours."

The two remained at the table in almost total silence. The only sound omitted by the Redguard was the occasion flipping of pages. No noises from the master bedroom, nor the children's bedroom, rang out in the house. Torben took in the warmth of the hearth in the middle of the room, and the smell of sausages being cooked in the kitchen.

He rose after a time, and grabbed a tankard from the table. "I'll be on the balcony, should my wife need me," he said to Rayya. She simply nodded and continued on with her book. Torben made his way through the main hall of the manor, past the hearth and nook at the front of the house, and out into the forest of Falkreath Hold.

A cold wind met him as he closed the door behind him. The wind came from the south, the direction he was facing, and had likely roared through the forest for some time, the source originating in the Jerall Mountains. He took deep breaths as the sudden cold quickly woke him and his senses. The air itself was cool and crisp, exactly what he liked and the reason he moved his family out here after his daughter was born.

The Dragonborn made his way to the side of the manor. He began to climb the ladder that led up to the balcony- _his_ balcony. Ysolda hadn't made the climb since she became pregnant out of fear of falling. Too much effort was required by the young Ania, and Kodlak knew better than to disturb his father at certain times.

Upon reaching the raised platform, Torben couldn't help but smile. The beauty of the home he built, along with the peaceful morning and crisp air was enough to make any Nord happy. He made his way over to a counter near the ledge with two barrels on it. One was marked with _Ale,_ while the other had _Mead_ printed on the front. Torben brought his tankard under the spigit of the barrel containing mead, and poured a small mug. He smiled as he slushed the dark gold liquor around in his tankard, and made his way over to the lone table.

The rest of the balcony consisted largely of an archery target on the other side. He had installed it in hopes of teaching Ysolda a thing or two about archery. He had hired Faendal, a long time friend, to teach her. Although the lessons didn't result in much, the balcony became a special spot for Torbin and Ysolda, as it provided privacy from the prying eyes of children and Housecarls. It was _their_ space, and he had truly missed his wife's presence.

Torbin didn't allow loneliness to bring him down now, however. He sat in a chair and faced the southern path. In the distance he could see the main road that they would take to get to Falkreath or Riverwood. On a clearer day, the light plums of smoke from the chimneys of Falkreath would be made visible as they appeared above the treeline. Torben took in the beauty of where he lived almost every day. While Falkreath wasn't his favorite town, the woods were largely untouched by civilization. He had become closely acquainted with the townsfolk of Riverwood, and enjoyed visiting the little lumber town occasionally.

As the crisp wind rustled the leaves of the tall trees, Torben said a little prayer to the Divines. He had never been much for prayer before becoming the Last Dragonborn, but after countless battles and near death experiences, he made sure he thanked them, and often. _A lance in the belly is a good way to remain devoted to the Nine,_ he had once joked to Ysolda after he returned wounded from a battle against Imperials during the war.

He brought the tankard of mead to his lips. He could smell the thick honey, and the sweetness that came with it. Finally, the liquid made its way into his mouth, and down his throat. He had left the case of Honningbrew out overnight, allowing the drink itself to reach a perfect temperature. The liquor inside was plenty enough to warm him up. He had a few more sips, and then opened the book that he had left on the table, _Words and Philosophy_. The book, detailing the adventures of a master Bosmer swordsmen, was a gift from young Kodlak on Torbin's twenty-eight nameday. He often enjoyed reading on his balcony, where he wouldn't be troubled by any worries or responsibilities. His wife likely saw the book for sale in Whiterun or Falkreath, and bought it for Kodlak to gift to him.

So was the way he spent his early morning on that day, where sleep had eluded him and laziness overcame him. He sipped his mead, willing himself to stop after one mug, lest his wife need to scold him for getting drunk.

About an hour had passed when young Kodlak called up to his father's balcony from the ground. "Father?" he heard the boy call. His voice had yet to change, but he held a thick tone to his own Nordic accent, nearly as thick as Ulfric Stormcloak himself. "Mother says that you have to come down for breakfast."

Torbin sighed as he set his book down - now with only a few pages left - and stood from the table. His mead had been long consumed, and he left the tankard and book on the table. "I'm on my way."

He climbed down the ladder, jumping off at the last few steps. His son was still on the ground, and looked up at his father. Kodlak had hit a small growth spurt in recent months, which he was proud of, but he was still significantly smaller than the unusually large mass of his father.

"How did you sleep, son?" Torbin ruffled his son's curly blond hair and put his arms around him, leading him back towards the front door of the manor.

"Very good, father." Kodlak held little interest in his fathers attempt at conversation, as instead, "Are we going to town today?" came out of the young Nord.

Torbin chuckled at his son's impatience. "Aye lad. We'll do some chores here first, though, and ready the wagon for..."

His son interrupted him eagerly, not realising the impoliteness that came with it. "Can we practice sparring before we leave? Please, Father, I swear I get so much better each day and I…"

Torbin laughed again at his child. "My my, Kodlak. You are as eager as ever. You don't want to practice with Rayya?"

His son shook his head as they neared the door, "She's too fast. And tries teaching me all those Redguard moves..."

"Hmph. Well battles are very fast paced. And Redguards are the finest sword fighters in Tamriel. Perhaps Rayya training you would do wonders." Kodlak quickly let out a quick groan, not able to hide his disappointment.

The two stepped into the warmth of the main hall. "Alas, we can spar for thirty minutes before we leave. Then thirty minutes before nightfall."

Kodlak looked up to his father with a glowing smile. He didn't need to say an expression of 'thanks'; the smile was made it apparent enough.

Upon reaching the edge of the dining table, Torbin was met with by a cheerful greeting from Ania, who was playing with a doll at her seat. His daughter looked almost identical to how he pictured Ysolda looked at her age; she had inherited both her mother and father's brown hair. He gave his son a light push, motioning for him to take his seat next to his younger sister. Ysolda and Rayya emerged from the kitchen with the breakfast.

The Dragonborn's wife set a large plate of sausage on the table, and approached her husband. She wore a shirt that held tight upon her swollen womb, and a pair of wool trousers and socks. Even in such a simple outfit, Torbin couldn't help but smile at the beauty of his wife. "Good morning, my dear," Ysolda said in her honeyed, quiet voice. Even in her twenty-sixth year, neither her voice, nor her beauty had faded.

"Good morning, my love." Torbin leaned down and planted a kiss on his wife's cheek. "How did you sleep?"

"Oh, not so bad. The baby was still all night, but…," her tone dropped to a whisper as she planted a kiss on her husband's lips, "your presence was greatly missed when I woke."

"Hmph. Always the flirt," he replied with a grin. The couple had abstained from sex for the past few months, for Ysolda's comfort, but they had found other methods of pleasure. Torbin wrapped his arm around Ysolda's waist and led her to the table, pulling out her chair for her before she sat. He then took the seat next to her, and motioned for Rayya to take her seat. It was typically rare for a Housecarl to dine with the Thane, but Torbin and Ysolda saw no need to shun their servant.

Breakfast came and went, and after the family was fed, Ania and Kodlak assisted Rayya in clearing the table. Torbin and Ysolda went their separate ways, each ready to start the new day; Ysolda to the nook to read, and Torbin upstairs to change into proper work clothes. He decided on a plain grey overtunic, made of wool. The tunic was a comfortable fit; not too loose but not uncomfortably tight. A pair of brown trousers fit over his waste. He sat on the bed and slipped on his fur boots, then met his son downstairs by the hearth.

The day proceeded better than Torbin had expected. He and Kodlak had spent much of the morning putting up a chicken coop around the western side of the manor. The chickens and cow were also fed and watered by Kodlak. The father and son quickly moved on to farming. A small plot of land at the back end of the house had been cleared for planting, and with the month of First Seed nearing its end, the crops needed to be planted before the rains passed.

Torbin went into the shed, and emerged with a large sack of grain seeds. Kodlak knew what was required of him, and quickly began place the seeds in the appropriate holes of fertile dirt while his father ran the plow before him.

Once the grain was planted in three long rows, the two began to place cabbage and leek seeds into three more rows each. "Father," Kodlak groaned as the two were toiling, "why do we plant cabbage? Mother is the only one who likes it."

Torbin couldn't help but smile as he stood to stretch his back. "Because, son, your mother insists that cabbage is good for your bones. Wouldn't want your sword arm getting weak, eh?"

Torbin knew that there would be no more groaning from his son at eating cabbage; at least not for another few weeks. The last thing Kodlak wanted to do was appear weak in the eyes of his father, regardless of its truth. The fact was that his son was seemingly stronger with each day that passed, a testament to training with his father, and working the fields.

After a few hours, the field was properly cleaned and planted. The rains would come soon, ensuring the fields would grow quickly. They would need to pick the grown crops when they were ready, and plant some more before the ground became too cold.

Torbin glanced over to the orchard in the far field to the west. "Orchard" was a glorified name for the five apple trees that had been planted some two years ago. Even from the distance where he stood, Torbin could see bright red apples hanging low on the tree, meaning that they needed to be picked sometime soon.

Seeing as how the sun was in the middle of the sky, and that they needed to head to Falkreath soon, Torbin called his son over. "We're done out here for today," he said, putting his muscular arm around his son as the two inspected their work from the front pathway of the manor. "Help me put the plow and seed away, and then we can spar for a short time."

Kodlak greadily quickened his pace at the mention of sparing. He hauled the 50 pound sack of seed over his shoulder with ease, and practically ran off to the barn, his father smiling behind him with the plow.

As the two exited, Ysolda happened to be stepping out of the house. She greeted her husband and son with a smile. "Kodlak, head to my armory and grab the sparring swords," Torbin ordered his son, leaving him alone with his wife.

"Gods, you stink," Ysolda teased as Torbin attempted to put his arm around her.

"It's that damn cabbage you wanted me to plant. Not my fault you insist on making your family suffer."

Ysolda rolled her eyes and smirked. "I will hear no more of your complaining, Dragonborn. Of all the good things I do for you and…"

Torbin didn't let her finish. "Please, don't call me that," he said, refusing to met her eyes, his tone quickly became solemn. Still next to his wife, and overlooking the orchard, Torbin could feel her eyes glancing up at him, before quickly reverting them back to her feet.

"Oh...right...Sorry." She whispered while simultaneously leaning against the sweaty mass of her husband.

The two stood there in a moment of silence, holding each other tightly. "How did you really sleep last night?" Ysolda asked, breaking the quiet.

Torbin glanced down at her with weary blue eyes. She looked up at him, seemingly lost in the complexity of his rough face. "Do you really want to know?" he asked her.

"I want to know how you are doing. I want to know what it is you feel, my love." She reached out to cup his cheek. "And what you fear."

Torbin had kept his emotions bottled up for so long. Ever since _the_ attack during the war, he had been distanced from his wife. Their love had never faltered, but her trust in him and his health certainly had.

Torbin finally gave in. "Just more nightmares, Ysolda," he grumbled, shaking his head.

"Of?"

He pursed his lips, a common habit he had when he was deep in thought, or discussing something he didn't wish to discuss. "Just...war. More thoughts of the war."

This had become a common theme for Torbin, and Ysolda knew it. They had only discussed it a few times in the past, but she knew her husband well enough; his heart and mind were plagued with regret and remorse.

She again wrapped her arm around her husbands sweaty shirt. "Perhaps you could talk to someone about your troubles?"

"And who would I talk to? Kodlak is dead. Arngeir and his Greybeards disagreed with my use of my gifts." He sighed and looked up, seemingly searching the midday heavens for a sign. "You are all I have left."

She reached for his hand with her left. "Than talk to _me,_ my dear."

Kodlak interrupted his parents' discussion when he exited the manor, letting the door slam loud enough for them to hear. He carried two blunt practice swords in each hand, and a wide smile of determination on his face. Torbin leaned down and planted a kiss on his wife's forehead while releasing her from his arms. "We shall talk more of this," he whispered. "Tonight."

Kodlak approached his mother and father. Ysolda crouched down and wordlessly gave her eldest child a warm hug, glancing at Torbin with big brown eyes. "Be safe, son," she said as she left the embrace, and headed into the manor.

Torbin looked down and gave his son a small smile. "Sword?" he asked, reaching his hand out for the weapon. Kodlak placed the practice sword in his father's hand, and the two made their way to the orchard and surrounding field west of the manor, making small talk of the apples and farmwork.

Upon reaching the field, Torbin instructed his son to run two laps around the field, as was the usual routine. Five minutes later, Kodlak stopped running in front of his father. The two proceeded to do a small workout that consisted of push ups, lunges, and vigorous stretching.

After Torbin had decided they were finished, he stepped back from his son, taking in his fighting stance. Kodlak eagerly did the same, allowing his father to judge and correct his stance and his grip.

Kodlak's stance was correct, but his grip on the hilt was weak, a testament to developing muscle. "Son," Torbin called, approaching Kodlak. "There are over thirty-eight grips of the sword. Find what works best for you, eh?"

Torbin used his reading materials to train young warriors, such as Kodlak or the Companions. This time, _Words and Philosophies_ came to mind.

They had this discussion several times during their many sparring sessions. Kodlak vowed to his father that he would be the best swordsman to ever rise out of Skyrim, a son worthy of the legendary Dragonborn. Truthfully, Torbin didn't care what his children did in life; he would love them regardless. But he knew how much Kodlak loved sword fighting, and he was willing to teach his son everything there was to know about the art. The Companions would teach him much, when he was old enough, and Torbin would scour Tamriel for the best trainers.

Once Kodlak was in a relaxed position, Torbin engaged him with the practice sword. Slowly at first, Kodlak managed to go through the motions, deflecting every move his father sent him with ease.

About five minutes of slow-paced training, Torbin allowed his son to go on the offensive. They went through some of the dozens of offensive positions that Kodlak knew, each one satisfactory to the father.

Torbin was always impressed at the speed in which Kodlak developed his skills as a fighter. He had trained likely hundreds of men and women in the art of sword fighting, Companions and Stormcloaks included. Still, he had never seen equal talent that Torbin possessed at such a young age. He was very proud of his son, although it was often hard for him to show it.

The last ten minutes of the training session involved full speed sparing. Kodlak would go on the offensive, using every move and position he knew in an attempt to strike his father. Despite his skill, Torbin always remained unscathed by his son's volley.

Eventually, Torbin would go on the offensive, not holding back in his own attempt to strike his son. He always succeeded, yet the time and effort it took often varied, signing Kodlak's improvement and adaptiveness.

The two soon called an end to the sparring session. Kodlak had small bruises along his upper legs and belly, and dirt all over him. Still, he walked alongside his father back to the manor with a wide grin on his face.

Young Kodlak took the practice swords back to the armory, and was then instructed to wash up out back and put on a fresh set of clothes. Torbin would do the same when his son was finished, and for now he and Rayya loaded up the wagon with supplies they would sell in Falkreath. Among the goods were deer pelts, surplus grain seeds, and a quilt that Ania and Ysolda had finished making a few weeks ago.

After Torbin had clensed his body from as much dirt as possible, he made his way to the master bedroom. Ysolda was seated at the small table in the corner, eating what smelled to be some leftover cabbage stew.

She gave her husband a small smile as he entered the room. "When are you leaving for town?"

Torbin made his way over to the bed while simultaneously pulling his shirt over his head. His muscular and scarred chest seemed to gleam in the sunlight that made its way through the windows. "Soon as I change, dear. Kodlak and Rayya are making sure the horses are ready." He removed his trousers and tossed them in a pile with his shirt.

"And you are sure you have everything?" Ysolda said with her soothing voice.

Torbin glanced over and smiled at his wife, nodding his head. He made his way over to her, still in the nude, and took the seat across from her. "Ya know, I am very sorry that I wasn't here when you and the baby woke this morning." He took her hands into his own. "Is there anyway I could _possibly_ make it up to you, my dear?" he smirked.

Ysolda's faced turned red, but her own smile never faded. She squeezed her husband's hands and looked him in his blue eyes. "Torbin Jorgenson, you are as much of a buck as you were the night we first lay together." She planted a warm kiss on his lips.

He chuckled, taking her hand in his. "Gods, we were so young and foolish back then."

"We're still foolish," she responded, resting her forehead against his, and glancing deep into his soul.

Torbin's breathing steadied as he came closer to his wife, pressing a kiss on her lips. They stared deeply at each other, basking in one another's presence. "You know I'll always love you, Ysolda," Torbin whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear. "You are too good for me, and you deserve endless love. I…," he paused to gather his thoughts. "I'm sorry if I seem more reserved as of late, and I promise I'll tell you all that troubles me."

Ysolda's big brown eyes were full of understanding and compassion. She nodded her head. "I know you will." She released his hands and went back to quietly eating her stew.

Torbin got up and walked back to the wardrobe, pulling out a fur coat and grey trousers, proceeding to put them on. He sat down on the bed, making small talk to his wife while slipping on and tying his boots.

Suddenly, the manor door slammed shut, and footsteps were heard rapidly ascending the stairs. Soon after, Ysolda and Torbin heard a pounding at the door. "Father! Mother?" Kodlak's voice was quickly recognized.

Torbin gave a glance at Ysolda, then quickly made to open the door. Once he did, Kodlak stared up at him, a face of intensity and excitement. "What is it, lad?" Torbin asked his son.

"Soldiers are here! Soldiers!" Kodlak exclaimed, motioning for his parents to follow.

Torbin quickly walked over towards the bed, and pulled out a sheathed sword from behind the frame. Soldiers seeking him out, regardless of their allegiance, usually meant something delicate. And something unexpected.

Kodlak led Torbin out of the room quickly, with Ysolda trailing right behind them. As the three came down the stairs, Ania waited patiently for them. "What's happened?" she sweetly asked without a hint of fear or confusion.

"Come to me darling," Ysolda called as she stepped off the last stair. The family proceeded out the door, Torbin firmly holding his sword as he stepped in front of his son, preparing himself for anything.

Three soldiers on horseback sat at a short distance. They each dorned blue and white armor, symbolizing that they were men of the Nordic Army. One man, wearing a domed helmet, carrying a blue sigil, the Bear of Skyrim. These men were sent by Ulfric Stormcloak.

Rayya stood at a distance, engaged in a conversation with one of the men that Torbin couldn't quite make out. She had a hand on the hilt of her curved blade, seemingly as wary of the men as Torbin was. She cast a quick glance back to her Thane and his family as they stepped out of the manor, and carried on with her conversation.

Torbin glanced at his wife. "Wait here," he calmly instructed. Curiosity was afloat now, and he could see it on Ysolda and Ania's faces. Kodlak, however, had a wide and eager grin on his face, his eyes wide with excitement.

Torbin approached the riders, stopping directly next to his Housecarl, his left hand still gripping the sheathed sword.

"...I will tell him myself," Torbin managed to catch one of the soldiers in conversation. The sentence originated from the soldier in the middle of the three. He wore no helmet and had a bright white cloak around his shoulders. The cloak symbolized that the man was an officer, yet Torbin had never seen this man before.

Torbin pursed his lips and took in the three riders mounted before him, sizing them up. "What can I do for you lads?" he asked, his eyes set on the rider with the white cloak.

The soldier's blue eyes met Torbin's. "Are you the Dragonborn?" His voice seemed to unintentionally boom, yet there was a sense of elegance to it.

Torbin tilted his head back, raising his chin to the riders. "Yes," he sighed. "I am the Dragonborn."


End file.
